"Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." ~ unknown
What a poignant quote as suicides fill the news. These are anxious times for many people. I try to be kind always, but I want to do better in reaching out when I sense someone is discouraged, rather than waiting until they reach out to me.
While I'm on the subject of reaching out, yesterday while refueling at a gas station, my grandson and I waited in the car while my husband was inside buying a few items. I noticed a young woman pacing inside. She paused now then to glance at me before resuming her pacing. I watched her walk outside, and directly to my side of the car. She knocked on my window. I opened my door as the automatic window electronics were malfunctioning. She was crying. Said she was stranded, had noticed our VA license plate and was desperate for a ride to Winchester. She just needs a ride down R81. Since it was pouring raining, and our car was loaded to the max, I told her to wait inside while I talk to my husband.
When Jay came back to the car, we discussed things. Scams, the safety of our grandson, more delays to our trip. The woman sat hunched over a table inside, trying not to look at us. We kept hesitating, but finally, Jay asked me what my gut was saying. I didn't respond, just looked into his eyes. Meanwhile, in the back seat, Grandson was strongly expressing his opinion. "There is no room for her. He needs his personal space." I knew he didn't want to share the back seat with a stranger. I knew my quiet, reserved husband didn't want to share the front seat with a stranger. He was already stressed.
Unspoken thoughts flew between us. What if she was our daughter? What if she's running away from an abuser? What if she's part of a scam sting? Someone tried to scam us before at West Virginia rest stop.
My whole gut said 'just act, don't ask questions. Helping always contains risk.' I wanted Jay to come to his own conclusions. After a few more seconds of silence, he got out of the car and went in to talk to her. I reassured the grandson. Soon we were rearranging all the stuff in our car to see if we could make room. We managed to fit her in. I moved to the back seat; she wearily plopped in the front. We talked a bit as women easily do, she in the front and me directly behind her. Then, I saw her head wobble, asked if she wanted a pillow and left her be. Exhausted, she fell asleep.
The day was intense with a delay earlier to fix our window electronics, while Jay got rained on and grandson complained he was cold and getting wet. A blanket easily quieted grandson. The skies couldn't be placated. Pouring rain off and on made visibility difficult. Our old car has no AC and the defogger doesn't work the greatest either. Now we are inviting a detour and a thousand questions from our grandson. Yet she asked for help; she trusted me. The parking lot at the station was packed full and there was one empty space right in front of the spot she paced inside. Earlier we had decided to head home at 12noon rather than 9am. We might have missed this station altogether and the young woman. So many variables to this story.
After the drop off in Winchester, after exchanges of best wishes and deep gratitude, we returned to our route. It was not a 'made a new friend and everything was rosy' kind of an experience. It was awkward, uncomfortable, with lots of unanswered questions.
We came home to flooding. Again. Creek flooded with water over running over our bridge higher than ever. Our 'no pond' meadow sporting a nice pond. Worst though, our lane is almost destroyed. Gravel washed out in heaps in the hay fields and deep ruts in the lane. Must have been a downburst gusher of a rainstorm!
Life is difficult for all of us at times. The hardest thing in the world, for most of us, is to ask for help.
How would any of us survive without a little help now and then?
Let's make it easier for people to ask for help. Let's help before we are asked. Let's continue developing empathy, vulnerability, and kindness.
Because a morning without you would be a dwindled dawn.
Photo: Dawn over Starry Meadows, by Stephanie Landis
